Mirror Mirror
by purplehairedwonder
Summary: Comment fic: Sam's first glimpse in the mirror once the wall comes down shows a broken, battered soul.


**Author's Note:** This was written for the OhSam Comment Fic Meme over at Livejournal. The prompt was "There's an old belief that you see your soul when you look into a mirror. Sam's soul has been in the Cage for hundreds of years. What does he see when he looks at his own reflection? What's in the mirror, staring back at him every morning when he tries to shave?"

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing you recognize.

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><p>Mirror Mirror<p>

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><p>It wasn't intentional, at least at first. The whole avoiding mirrors thing. Sam'd just had other things on his mind so hadn't given much thought to his reflection. In the moments that he knew for sure—or at least about eighty percent anyway—that he was topside again, that he was with Dean and Bobby, he focused on memorizing every inch of their faces, every affect of their voices, every smell that attached itself to their clothes and hair, every callous on their hands…everything. He focused on that so that when he inevitably slipped back into the Cage, he'd have something to hold onto, to shield himself against the memories of Lucifer no matter how real and present they seemed.<p>

Michael and Lucifer had used the faces of his loved ones to torment him countless times and countless ways, but the copies were never perfect. And Sam kept memorizing to make sure he could always tell the difference.

But Sam was so focused on Dean and Bobby, he hadn't given himself a second thought.

The first time he glanced in the bathroom mirror, weeks after the wall had fallen, it had been a particularly good day and he'd still nearly lost his tenuous grip on reality right then and there. He panicked, slamming his fist into the mirror out of pure instinct before shoving away from the sink so hard he slammed into the wall. His head snapped back with a painful crack, and he slid down in a boneless heap to the cold floor, which was now littered with glass shards.

Sam absently noted the grout buildup between the tiles as he tried to shake the reflection from his mind. He held his hands up, turning them back and forth. The knuckles on his right hand were torn and bleeding freely, small specks of glass catching the light and sparkling. But the rest of his skin was unmarred, save for the familiar hunting scars and calluses he'd built up over the years.

He curled his damaged hand into his chest, ignoring the throbbing and the feel of warm blood trickling down his arm and onto his shirt, and touched his face gently with his left hand. There were no burn marks or flayed sections. There was no blood, no protruding bone, or rings around his neck. Eyes, ears, nose, tongue… All there.

It took a moment to register the clacking sound he was hearing as his own teeth. He was trembling, covered in glass shards, and curled up on the bathroom floor like some hung over frat boy after finals week. Just shit.

He'd seen the part of himself that remembered Hell when the wall had come down. He'd confronted that piece—the flayed, broken, and terrifying piece—of his soul in his mind. He'd seen the indelible damage Hell had done to him, had a point of reference for what he was getting into before he'd done it. But it seemed like the shadows in Bobby's kitchen, in his own fractured mind, had concealed some of the worst damage.

And he could probably have pointed out what instrument had created each wound just so.

Sam wasn't vain—he'd never preened the way Dean had when they were younger—but this deformed vision of himself was horrifying. He had enough reminders of how screwed up he was bouncing around his skull unimpeded without seeing them every time he looked into a mirror, too.

He shuddered, shutting his eyes, yet all he could see was that brief glimpse of what he'd been reduced to. His stomach turned.

"Sammy, are you okay? I heard a crash," Dean called from the hallway.

Sam swallowed against the bile rising in his throat. "Dean," he managed to croak. He didn't know if he was calling for his brother, asking him to leave, or just acknowledging his presence.

The door swung open and Dean stood in the doorway. He looked upside down from Sam's vantage point and he nearly laughed at his _upside down_ brother. Dean surveyed the scene with a practiced eye before kneeling down next to Sam.

"Sammy, what happened?"

"Dean," Sam repeated, every other word caught in his throat. How could his brother stand to look at him like this? Didn't he see how ruined Sam was? Didn't he see the broken shell of a man trying to pass for his brother? It'd had all been in the mirror in that brief moment.

"Hey, easy," Dean said, helping to shift Sam to lean against the wall. "Lemme see your hand." Sam bit his lip, suddenly embarrassed at his outburst, but he held it out anyway. Dean raised a curious eyebrow.

"Didn't like what I saw," Sam muttered, dropping his eyes to the glass-littered floor.

Dean cursed under his breath and his grip on Sam's hand tightened momentarily before he let it go. Sam missed the contact for a brief moment before Dean had moved next to him, pulling Sam's uninjured arm over his shoulders.

"C'mon Sasquatch. Let's get you out of here and look at that hand. First aid kit's in the hall closet," Dean said simply, easing Sam to his feet.

Sam glanced back at the mirror and his breath hitched when he saw Lucifer at his shoulder, smiling. Sam shut his eyes and let his brother guide him to their room.

The next morning, Sam found all the mirrors in the house covered with towels and sheets.


End file.
